Брайан Макклеллан - Wrath of Empire

“Name and rank?” the sentry demanded.

“Colonel Ben Styke.”

The sentry’s eyes widened. “Oh. Right. I, uh, better have someone escort you to the general.”

Styke and Ka-poel were led through the camp. He was pleasantly surprised to find that the Fatrastan Army was significantly more organized than they had been during the War for Independence, with clean rows of tents and clearly marked regiments, companies, and platoons. It was the first time he’d been in a Fatrastan army camp in over ten years, and he felt more than a little nostalgia for the old days.

They were led to a large tent in the middle of the camp. Two guards stood at the entrance, bayonets fixed, and Styke was able to tell which one recognized him by the way the man straightened, inhaling sharply.

Their escort called out his name and rank and then went inside the tent, emerging a moment later. His face was pale. “General Dvory will see you now, Colonel Styke.”

“That was quick,” Styke commented dryly. “Stay here,” he told Ka-poel, ducking into the tent.

Dvory was much as Styke remembered him – an unassuming-looking man with the dusky skin of a full-blooded Rosvelean. He was slim, of medium height with black hair and a plain face. At some point in the last decade he’d begun to wear spectacles. His bottom lip drooped slightly, giving most people the impression he was stupid, which, Styke remembered quite clearly, was not the case.

“Ben Styke,” Dvory said, standing up from behind his desk. He folded his spectacles and set them on a book he’d been reading.

“Dvory,” Styke replied.

“It’s General Dvory now. You may call me sir .”

Styke ambled over to the chair on the opposite side of the table from Dvory and sat down, listening to it creak angrily under his weight. Dvory was an honest-to-god real general. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Dvory had always been competent, but not “make me a general” levels of competent. Nowhere close. “Fat goddamn chance of that. You’re welcome to try to have me beaten for insubordination. We’ll see how that goes for everyone involved.”

Dvory managed a pained expression and lowered himself into his chair. “I expected you sooner or later,” he said. “Unfortunately, I expected the attitude as well. I heard you beheaded Fidelis Jes?”

“I asked to see the quartermaster,” Styke replied. “I think it’s ironic they brought me straight to you, considering you used to be one of my quartermasters. Yeah, I beheaded Fidelis Jes. He had it coming.”

“I see.” Dvory reached for a cigarette box, opened the lacquered lid, and plucked out a cigarette. He lit it with a match, inhaling deeply, and Styke thought he saw just the slightest tremble to his hand. “It’s a pity,” Dvory continued. “Fidelis Jes was a great man.”

“He was a prick, and everyone knew it.”

“Great men can be pricks,” Dvory said. “Take yourself, for instance.”

Styke interrupted with a snort. “You think I’m a great man?”

“Absolutely! You were, anyway. I understand you’re a shadow of your former self, but you still have that attitude – that disregard for your betters that got you put in front of a firing squad.” Dvory paused to smoke, looking over Styke’s shoulder thoughtfully. “You’ve always been a pompous piece of garbage and yet … still a great man.”

Styke ignored the insults, focusing on Dvory’s careless appearance. Was he trying to goad Styke into attacking him? Or did he just assume he was safe in the middle of his army? Styke produced his most condescending smile. “Have you been practicing that speech in a mirror?”

“Excuse me?”

“The ‘great man’ thing. I bet you’ve been practicing that ever since you found out I killed Jes.”

Dvory’s eyes narrowed. He took a deep breath, ashing his cigarette into a half-empty glass of whiskey. Again, Styke noted that the carelessness of it seemed too performative. Dvory wanted Styke to think he didn’t give a damn about him anymore. “Why are you here, Styke? Did you come to kill me? I heard Agoston disappeared. Tenny Wiles, too. Valyaine, though … he beat the shit out of you in Bellport. That must have been something to see. Have you softened in your old age?”

“I could kill you now,” Styke mused aloud.

“And die by the hands of my guards. Not even you can fight a field army, Styke.”

Styke leaned forward, listening to the chair creak. He drew his knife and planted the tip against the top of Dvory’s table, spinning it. To his credit, Dvory ignored the knife and kept his eyes on Styke’s face. But even with that bravado, he could almost hear Dvory wondering if the prospect of death would stop Styke from having his revenge. “No,” Styke said, watching his knife spin before plucking it up in his hand. “I’m not here to kill you.”

“Oh?” Dvory blinked in surprise.

“Of course not. We’re on the same side, aren’t we?”

“Are we?” Dvory asked. “No one reinstated the Mad Lancers. No one made you a colonel again.”

Styke used his boz knife to trim his fingernails. “That’s not entirely true. Lady Vlora Flint reinstated the Mad Lancers and my rank.”

“A traitor with a price on her head,” Dvory scoffed.

“A patriot who just happened to piss off Lindet,” Styke said. “Regardless, I’m killing Dynize. That puts us on the same side. Or would you like to go back to Bellport and ask the mayor who arrived to save the city in the nick of time?”

“Ah,” Dvory said, as if something had just occurred to him. “I wondered where the old goat got a spine. You put him up to it, didn’t you? Told him not to let the army strip the city for supplies.” He shook his head. “He’s lucky we didn’t need anything or I would have had him hanged.” Dvory made a vexed sound in the back of his throat. “I should have you hanged for insubordination.”

“Go ahead,” Styke said, calling what they both knew was a bluff.

Dvory stubbed out his cigarette and scowled at Styke. “Don’t think I wouldn’t. Fortunately for you, I have strict instructions not to kill you or your men.”

That did surprise Styke. He leaned back and put his knife away. “From who?”

“Who do you think? From Lindet. I saw her a month ago on her trip from Landfall to Redstone. She specifically said she wanted you left to your own devices unless you outright attacked a Fatrastan army.” Dvory frowned at a spot above Styke’s head. “Jes warned me a decade ago that Lindet had a soft spot for you.”

“When he asked you to help separate me from Ibana and the others so he could execute me?”

“That’s right.”

“I just wanted to be clear on that point,” Styke said. He considered lunging across the table. He could bury his knife in Dvory’s chest before he made a sound. He might even be able to make it to the edge of the camp before the alarm was raised. But it wasn’t worth the risk, not when he needed to look after his own. “You asked why I’m here. The lancers need a place to lie low for a couple of days. I want to do that inside your pickets.”

Dvory looked like he’d been slapped. “Did you just ask me for help?”

“I did.”

“Wait. I told you straight out that I betrayed you, and you turn around and ask for my help?” He sounded truly incredulous.

Styke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “That’s right.”

Dvory stood up, pacing from one end of the tent to the other before retaking his seat. He rocked back and forth like a child unable to come to grasp with their emotions, then plucked up another cigarette. “Why should I help you?”

“Because I’m doing your job for you,” Styke said. “Because patching things up with Ben Styke would be a damned good career move right now. Because you used to be a Mad Lancer and unless you’re as cold as you’re pretending, some of those people riding with me were your friends.”